


A Roman Candle, Burning At Both Ends

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/F, Genderswap, Girl Gangs, Motorcycles, Snapshots, motorcycle lesbians are everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: It’s not the kind of romance you’d read about in novels; It has little of words, though Feyre could listen to Rhys talk her to her grave without complaint, in that low, rolling accent of hers.____________[Fanfic of Avislightwing's Biker Girls AU]





	A Roman Candle, Burning At Both Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avislightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Things I'll Later Lose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12595540) by [avislightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing). 



 

 

 

 

It’s not the kind of romance you’d read about in novels; It has little of words, though Feyre could listen to Rhys talk her to her grave without complaint, in that low, rolling accent of hers.

Theirs is an affair of bodies and heat. It’s attraction, yes, but not as shallow as is safe. It is the rare glances of what Rhys hides behind all that leather and those clever smiles that really pull her under. Her bones turn into fire around her. The purr of Rhys’ enormous bike’s engine is echoed in the deepening contentedness that settles time and time again in her stomach, during late nights held in dark arms.

It would make for a terrible narrative. There is no conflict, no resistance; Her descent is a melting, not a breaking. Yet amongst it all, she is left wondering: does Rhys feel it too?

*******

She watches Rhys and her fights at the club. Not the best fighter they have, but the most enduring. Even after ten rounds of getting slammed down against concrete she’ll bounce back bloody and grinning. Cassia can hand her ass to her all evening, but she only gives up when Rita heckles them from the bar that the place is closing. Most people think it’s hot, or foolish.

Feyre just finds it sad. There’s something in that unstoppable hurtling towards destruction that speaks of loathing. She’s seen it elsewhere, in how Rhys guns her bike too fast down too tight corners, how she drinks in the mornings and smokes even when she’s supposed to be sleeping. She can taste it in the morning, drenched in too-bitter coffee that’s been made strong enough to power through nights of insomnia, lingering on the burnt toast born of a toaster Rhys refuses to fix because  _she likes it that way._

So Feyre gets better at dragging Rhys out of the ring and sitting on her lap to keep her down and out. She gets real good at kissing because those lips can’t call on more violence when they’re locked with hers, or so she thinks. Yet violence comes nonetheless, and she finds herself calling for it too.

They shove each other up against walls, cabinets, tables, bikes. Fuck on the seat, against the brick, atop broken glasses. Her knees are rubbed red raw and there’s scratches all over her all the time now, and they’re never from her job. Every so often, she catches herself picking at them. During the quiet, the moments where someone’s stolen the radio or company’s abandoned her, she rubs those wounds raw.

She’s not a biker like her girlfriend, not in a gang, but she knows what it is to burn and  _like it_.

*******

You can’t run into burning houses without adrenaline flooding your system; Feyre’s been high on it for weeks.

Blasting through the still air so fast it feels like gale force winds, together they tear through the desert out tracks as if they’re racing towards something. She clings on tight to leather and warm waists whilst Rhys, clad in black and no helmet because fuck you that’s why, squeezes the throttle.

This arena is where she’s hot  _and_  foolish. It’s impossible to be sad when soaring on a bike.

No one moves a bike quite like Rhysand. She talks a lot of shit to other people, but with bikes she knows their language so well she rarely says a word. Beneath her gloved hands, the roaring engine, the painted chrome, the laws of physics themselves, they all feel like instruments to be played by her touch. The music they produce is deafening, rattling in Feyre’s ears long after they’ve stopped for drinks or fucking. It’s the kind of music you can get drunk on.

Feyre wraps her arms around her lover’s waist, leans in every time. Kisses soft against her olive neck, soft and close and tender amongst the brutality of the engine and machinery. “I love you,” she says, and they go all the faster.

 


End file.
